


Hopelessly Devoted To You

by Cara252



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cara252/pseuds/Cara252
Summary: The brush of Dimitri’s lips against his skin is unexpected, and Claude flinches at the contact, fingers twitching in Dimitri’s hold.“My apologies. Was that too forward of me?”“It’s fine,” Claude breathes, and feels his lips shape into another smile, a smaller, honest one.-Neither Dimitri or Claude have experienced any sort of physical intimacy for years. Perhaps, together they can learn what it means to trust and love another.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 33
Kudos: 221





	Hopelessly Devoted To You

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote this. I'm sitting here, face literally on fire. ( ﾟヮﾟ)
> 
> Day 1 of DimiClaude Week 2020: Trust ~~/ Winter / Dreams~~

The church bells ring from the cathedral, alerting students and staff alike to the upcoming hour, and Claude looks from the book which he was attempting to read, yet has lost track of long ago, to the small window at his bedside. It’s dark outside, the only glimmers of light emerging from the few lit torches around the monastery, as well as the stars and moon shining brightly in contrast to the pitch-black sky above.

Taking all those aspects into account, Claude can determine that it must be around 10pm, and therefore the official time of night rest at the monastery. Students are supposed to retire to their dorms and keep any sort of noise to the bare minimum, which ultimately leaves the hallway – apart from the very rare appearance of a guard instructed to check on them – completely empty.

It is exactly what he has been waiting for the entire evening.

Once everyone has withdrawn to their rooms no one will be able to take notice of Claude sneaking out of his own and secretly slipping into another. It will be hardly two or three minutes until he can set his plan into motion.

His eyes unconsciously drift down to the book in his lap, and after a second of considering getting into it once more, he shuts it, perhaps far more violently than strictly necessary, and barely stops himself from flinging it across the room. He takes a deep breath to calm his fried nerves, and slowly sets the book down on his dresser.

Belatedly, he realises that he shouldn’t have put his trust into a courtesy book about Faerghus customs as a relationship advisor in the first place, since he has already thrown all of that garbage to the wind anyway by seeing their prince in secret.

It is not the first one he has read though in the last few weeks, and certainly not the most embarrassing type of book. He is suddenly acutely aware of all the romance novels he has hidden away in his room. Not only did he waste his money on them – despite having very few funds from his grandfather to begin with – but he also read through each and every single one, from start to finish.

Yet he feels no more educated on the topic than before all of that torture.

At some point, he considered going to Hilda or Dorothea for advice and, to his own horror, even considered asking Sylvain, but he scratched that idea faster than Dimitri broke his training lances.

For one, Claude is a very private person. He has spoken about this to Dimitri more than a couple of times, and they both agreed to keep things between them, and only them, so that they may figure out how they truly think of each other without any sort of outside influence or pressure. No one knows that they are seeing each other, and in all honesty, Claude would prefer to keep it that way.

Additionally, he feels awkward asking anybody about advice concerning such an intimate topic between him and Dimitri. He has no wish for anyone but him to know just how much he craves Dimitri’s love, his touch, his everything. How much he craves Dimitri.

On the other hand, he is not certain how the people would react to discovering that two of their three future rulers were leading a romantic relationship with each other behind the scenes for several months now, two men bearing rare crests no less.

But he does not need to know, because his mind has already conjured up enough horrible scenarios to keep him from ever revealing anything of the like. The fact that Dimitri will need an heir in the near foreseen future already weighs heavy on his mind, along with every other concern about his own ambitions and plans.

To put it simply, their relationship is a political nightmare.

He rises from his mess of a bed, various books strewn across it, black blanket and amber duvet, embroidered with stunningly beautiful patterns of Faerghus by golden threads, barely clinging onto the edge. A gift from Dimitri. It is one of Claude’s very few personal belongings that he takes intense care not to stain or tear.

He collects the books and deposits the stack on the remaining free space of his cluttered desk. The blanket and duvet toss up a cloud of dust from the wooden floor when he picks them up, causing his body to be seized by a temporary coughing fit. As he folds them on his bed, he makes a mental note to clean his room when he next finds the time.

He glances at his door, listening intently for any sort of noise outside. The commotion in the hall has ceased, replaced by an eerie silence, devoid of even the quietest of whispers. He blows out the candle on his night stand.

It’s time to leave.

His anxiety flares like fire at the thought, out of control and scorching hot. The burn doesn’t deter Claude from his plans. He wants this, and he has allowed his fears restrain him for far too long. As they say, we carry our worst enemies within ourselves; our own negative thoughts.

He cautiously opens the door, grimacing when its rusty hinges groan in protest, and risks a peek outside. As expected, the hall is perfectly void of students and staff. The torches have been extinguished to avoid any unnecessary accidents during the night - a very recent decision, coerced out of Seteth once a couple of students nearly set the dorms on fire by accident.

Claude does not believe it was a mishap. He does not believe it was a coincidence for the torch to be discovered only a few steps away from his room. If their intention was to kill or to solely put the blame on him, he does not know, nor does he have the means to prove any such suspicions.

Or, perhaps, he is simply being paranoid.

As a consequence of the incident, it is the moonlight shimmering through the tall arched windows which solely illuminates the hall in a heavenly glow from this point onward. The faint light enables him to detect the dim flickering of a candle escaping from the slit under Dimitri’s door.

He slips out of his room, mindful to create the barest minimum of noise as he closes the door. The old floorboards creak with his every step as he sneaks past Felix’s room, and he inwardly curses the monastery’s ancient history.

He hesitates when he eventually stands before Dimitri’s door, fist already raised to knock yet unmoving. It is the fear which constrains him still, which gnaws away at his mind, at his faith and conviction.

Claude’s fist tightens. No, he tells himself, he’s been here far too many times, doubted himself far too many times, withdrawn far too many times. This time, he won’t allow it.

Claude knocks twice, knuckles scraping against the rough surface of the wood.

“Come in.”

There is no pause between Claude’s knock and Dimitri’s reply. Dimitri’s voice is quiet and soft, the words spoken in a manner and tone he only ever uses around Claude. Dimitri must know that it is him.

Claude cautiously opens the door. The sensation of an artificial smile tugging up the corners of his lips is familiar. He welcomes it like an old friend. And yet, it feels wrong. It feels wrong to lie to Dimitri, as if he isn’t going to see straight through Claude’s charade.

Dimitri is bent over his desk, glaring at the various types of papers which are scattered across the surface. The lone candle among them flickers at the gust of wind created by the movement of the door.

“Thought I’d come pay you a visit.”

Dimitri raises his head, regarding Claude with an affectionate smile and fondness in his blue eyes. His gaze darts to Claude’s hand, the one still grasping the handle of the open door behind him, and back to his face. The tender expression fades from Dimitri’s face and is replaced by one of deep worry.

“Claude? Is something the matter?”

Dimitri’s question rings in his ears. Is something the matter? Claude is standing by the door like a deer caught in the lion’s den, as if he is ready to bolt at the slightest of wrong movements. And he is. He is ready to walk out on this if Dimitri doesn’t desire to take the same step forward that Claude wishes to.

He locks eyes with Dimitri, and Claude’s smile slips. There is no anger or hatred in Dimitri’s eyes, only trust and patience. Claude doesn’t want it to change. There is an excuse lingering on his tongue; it would be easy to get out of this situation still. But that isn’t what he wants either, is it?

Claude swallows his fears. There is a possibility Dimitri might not consent to his odd request. It is in his every right to do so. But Dimitri would never push him away. Dimitri would never hate Claude, not for something so trivial.

“I wish to try something. I’d like to touch you, and for you to touch me. Skin on skin. To show you mine, if you show me yours.” Dimitri’s eyes widen at his words, and Claude cannot endure staring into them any longer. He lets his gaze drop to the royal blue carpet on Dimitri’s floor. “If you’re alright with that.”

A heavy silence envelopes them, filled only by the sound of their slow breathing.

Then, Claude hears footsteps, careful and deliberate, approaching him, like a lion advancing on their prey. He tightens his grip on the handle when Dimitri’s boots come into view, and for a second, he considers running. He should not have asked. He should not have -

The sensation Dimitri’s gloved fingers gently brushing against his bare hand, the one clutching the handle, startles him out of his thoughts. Claude allows his gaze to follow the movements of Dimitri’s hand as he gradually loosens Claude’s grasp on the handle and lifts Claude’s hand to his face, kissing the back of it.

The brush of Dimitri’s lips against his skin is unexpected, and Claude flinches at the contact, fingers twitching in Dimitri’s hold. Claude’s face flushes hot despite his best efforts, heat unfurling across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“My apologies.” Claude meets Dimitri’s rich blue eyes when Dimitri lowers their joined hands, and is stunned by the utter devotion they present him with. There’s a trace of hesitancy in them, but absolutely none of disdain. “Was that too forward of me?”

“It’s fine,” Claude breathes, and feels his lips shape into another smile, a smaller, honest one. Dimitri reaches for the door, mindful of its rusty hinges as he closes it, and with one escape route cut off, Claude’s nerves are on edge. He tests his grip on Dimitri’s hand, grasping it a bit firmer to ground himself.

“I have no objections to your request. If that is what you wish, I would be glad to comply.” Claude’s body, previously drawn as tight as the string on his bow, finally slackens in relief at Dimitri’s consent. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

Claude hums in affirmation to Dimitri’s inquiry, guiding them to Dimitri’s bed. Over the past month, he has pondered on how exactly he wished to perform whatever this was. How far he trusts Dimitri and himself to advance into this unknown territory of their relationship.

“Sit on the bed for me, Mitya?” Claude lets Dimitri’s hand slip from his grasp, and Dimitri obeys his wish without an ounce of hesitation, taking a seat on the edge nearby the pillow. A grin breaks out on Claude’s face when he follows suit, kneeling on either sides of Dimitri’s legs, and flops down on his lap.

This isn’t the first time they have taken such a position. Yet, as always, a rosy blush appears on Dimitri’s cheeks, and he struggles on determining where to put his hands, ultimately settling on Claude’s hips. Claude, for his part, rests his hands on Dimitri’s broad shoulders to steady himself.

“Is this alright?” Dimitri regards Claude with a shy smile, but there’s uncertainty apparent in his features. For whatever reason, it soothes Claude’s frayed nerves, to know that Dimitri is as insecure about this as Claude is. He’s not alone in this.

“Y-yeah.”

“I was thinking just our shirts would be enough.” Dimitri’s jacket and armour have already been discarded, and he is dressed in only a tight-fitting, black turtleneck that complements his toned body. It leaves very little to the imagination. Claude enjoys the way Dimitri’s muscles flex as he kneads his shoulders with nimble fingers.

“And if you’re comfortable with it, these too.” Claude pointedly looks at Dimitri’s hands. The gloves he wears aren’t an uncommon sight. In fact, Claude has never seen Dimitri without them. Whatever secret they’re hiding, Dimitri has been very intent on keeping it.

“I fear you won’t find something you’ll like,” Dimitri chuckles, sounding rather self-deprecating. It isn’t quite the assent he was looking for, and not a clear answer to his suggestion, but Claude refuses to press for one. No matter the case, he will accept Dimitri’s decision.

“Everything about you is likeable, Mitya.”

Dimitri doesn’t appear to agree with his statement. Nevertheless, his face brightens at Claude’s words, and they grant him with enough courage to pull Claude closer by the waist, until Claude can count every single hair of Dimitri’s lashes, can feel Dimitri’s hot breath ghost across his face.

“Are you certain you want this?” When Dimitri’s gaze darts from his eyes to his lips and eventually to the exposed skin of his throat by the open collar of his coat, the pounding of Claude’s heart grows impossibly loud in his ears.

“I’m certain,” Claude whispers, “are you?” Dimitri’s face is close, so temptingly close. It would take nothing for Claude to give in, to lean in, to capture his lips in a frenzied kiss. But he cannot. Not until Dimitri gives his assent.

Dimitri hums as affirmation and closes the distance for them, eyes fluttering shut. Claude welcomes him with open arms, fisting the roots of the hair at Dimitri’s nape just the way he likes it and earning himself a throaty groan.

Claude cherishes moments like these, when the world around them fades away. Moments in which he doesn’t have to concern himself with the consequences of his actions, of kissing the crown prince of Faerghus in secret. Moments in which he can focus only on the sensation of Dimitri’s lips moving against his own in passionate, yet slow and tender motions.

Fingers which are not his own move to unfasten the clasps of his coat with practiced ease, slipping it off his shoulders where it folds around his elbows. Without breaking the kiss, Claude allows it to fall to the floor, leaving him only in a loose, long-sleeved shirt, and swiftly returns to his own task of exploring Dimitri’s upper body.

The sudden brush of gloved hands against his bare skin shocks Claude, so much that he recoils out of reflex. Dimitri’s hands snuck under his shirt unnoticed, but they immediately withdraw in response to Claude’s reaction.

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright? Do you want to stop?”

Claude seizes Dimitri’s hands, preventing him from moving back any further, and putting an end to his panicked rambling by capturing his lips once more. When they part, he guides Dimitri’s hands back to his hips.

“I’m alright,” Claude breathes, “I promise. Please, I want to feel your hands on my skin.”

For what feels like an eternity, Dimitri stares him straight in the eyes, and Claude, being determined to show his conviction, holds his gaze. He stares, stunned into silence by Claude’s plea, a thought Claude cannot decipher flitting forth and back in his eyes.

All of a sudden, Dimitri yanks off his gloves with careless abandon, throwing them to Claude’s coat on the floor. The sight that greets him is completely unexpected. There are patches of calloused, discoloured skin scattered across Dimitri’s hands, both of them.

“Burn marks?” he asks, meeting Dimitri’s meek gaze - a silent request for consent - as he tentatively reaches for his hand. Dimitri swallows thickly, but he doesn’t stop Claude. The difference between Dimitri’s normal skin and the burns is striking. One is smooth beneath his gentle fingers, the other rough and tight.

“From the Tragedy of Duscur,” Dimitri explains as Claude examines his hand. “Not even our most skilled healers could stop the skin from scarring. It’s not a very nice sight to look at.”

Dimitri lowers his head, blonde bangs falling into his eyes. The Tragedy is a difficult subject for him, will most likely always be for him. It is no surprise then, that he hides the scars which so forcefully remind him of the event not only from his peers, but from himself as well.

“It doesn’t bother me.” It’s a reassurance Dimitri requires of him, yet would never ask for of his own volition. Claude offers it to him anyway. By pushing Dimitri’s bangs out of his eyes and planting a chaste kiss on his forehead, he hopes to express the confidence he has in his own words.

“You haven’t seen the worst of it.”

“How far does it go?”

Dimitri hesitates before he takes Claude’s hand in his own, leading them to where the edges of the shirt are tucked into his pants. Claude pulls it out slowly and ever so carefully lifts it over Dimitri’s head, discarding it onto the pile behind him. He doesn’t comment when Dimitri hides his forearms by wrapping them around his waist with alarming urgency.

There are traces of burns all over Dimitri’s body, accented by a sea of gashes and cuts. On his arms and chest, across his abdomen and shoulders, up to his very throat. Claude traces the patterns the marks draw across Dimitri’s skin with his fingers, definitely more fascinated than disgusted. Dimitri doesn’t seem quite so convinced.

“Hey,” he calls in a mild tone, “I mean it. They don’t bother me.”

“They’re hideous, Claude,” Dimitri says, sounding defeated rather than sad, “and they’re everywhere.”

“I don’t think they are. I think you’re a handsome young man.” Claude winks, savouring the blush on Dimitri’s cheeks. “All ripping muscles.” He emphasizes each syllable as he presses down on Dimitri's abs with his palm, drawing it up to his chest. “Broad shoulders.” Follows the line of his shoulders. “And a contagious smile.” And lastly, captures his lips once again.

Dimitri smiles into the kiss, and skims his hands up and down Claude’s side, feeling every curve and every muscle through the fabric of his shirt. Hot breath brushes his face when Dimitri exhales and nips on his bottom lip. The gesture catches Claude off guard, earning Dimitri a raspy gasp from him.

This time he pays attention to the movements of Dimitri’s hands as they travel to the rim of his shirt, but his breath hitches still when they come into contact with his skin. The barrier of the gloves previously separating them is gone, replaced by the warmth of Dimitri’s palms against his abdomen, and Dimitri keeps them there, awaiting Claude’s permission.

“Do it,” he whispers huskily against Dimitri’s lips.

Dimitri doesn’t need to be told twice. They break apart, allowing Dimitri to strip Claude of his last layer of defense and toss it to the growing pile on the floor. The expression taking shape on Dimitri’s face speaks volumes about his shock. Claude’s body isn’t untouched by the cruelty of life either.

“May I?” Dimitri’s gaze darts across Claude’s body, from scar to scar, hands hovering indecisively over his form. Claude takes a deep breath to calm his racing heart, clutching Dimitri’s shoulders with shaky hands.

“Yes, you may.”

With every ounce of his willpower, Claude impels his body not to flinch when Dimitri brushes his skin. It’s unfamiliar; the sensation of hands gently caressing him instead of intending to inflict pain. It’s been too long since he felt this way. It’s been too long since he left his parents’ side. Too long since he felt this safe.

“Why? How?” Dimitri asked, his voice strained from both shock and anger, though not directed at Claude. There’s a fight between fury and sorrow in Dimitri’s core; Claude can see it in his eyes.

“Assassins.”

There so many more thoughts he could voice, yet whose words die in his throat. A story to each scar. The mark of an acid burn on his upper arm and shoulder that Dimitri’s hand lingers on, originally aimed at his face. The wound of a dagger thrust in his collarbone. The gash inflicted on his stomach by a sword.

He could tell stories, write an entire essay about each reason behind them. Could talk for hours about the hypocrisy and cruelty of men who sent assassins to eliminate an innocent person, a child no less. The hardships, the prejudices, the hatred that he faced, still faces to this day, and will continue to face until he manages to cleanse the world of its poisons.

But he can’t do that. He can’t tell Dimitri of his origins. He can’t tell him that he was born in another country, that he crossed the borders from Almyra. A half-blood born into the position of a prince, given the chance to fight for the throne of a country which does not accept him. But he doesn’t wish to lie to him either.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dimitri doesn’t appear appeased by his response, but he doesn’t press the matter either. His focus rests on the scar just below Claude’s heart, tracing the star-shaped mark with his thumb. It’s soothing, a stark contrast to the pain the weapon inflicted upon him.

“An arrow to the heart. Barely missed.” The tip had been dipped in poison, one so dangerous that it would have killed him in seconds if the arrow had actually struck his heart. It was a painful experience. The healers had taken hours to get every last drop of out his system.

“I’m glad it did,” Dimitri breathes heavily and lets his forehead fall to Claude’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his body and holding him close. Claude can now see Dimitri’s back with ease. There are long, deep gashes on his back, reaching from his waist up to his neck.

“Yours didn’t,” he whispers into Dimitri’s ear after a minute or two of playing with the strands of blonde hair on Dimitri’s neck. The amusement sparkling in Dimitri’s eyes when he raises his head is well worth the embarrassing comment.

“I want to try something, if you’ll let me.” The proposal is unexpected and hazy, but Claude nods anyway. Whatever Dimitri is thinking, Claude doesn’t have to fear it, and he doesn’t protest when Dimitri secures his grip on Claude’s hips.

The ease with which Dimitri heaves Claude off his lap and settles him down on his bed with his head resting on the pillow is terrifying. Dimitri could very easily break his bones with that incredible strength. The fact that he doesn’t, that he touches Claude as if he is afraid to leave even the tiniest of bruises makes Claude’s heart grow fonder.

Although Claude has to admit, he sometimes wishes Dimitri would.

Dimitri crawls above him, bracing himself with a hand on each side of Claude’s head, blonde hair framing his attractive face while the dim light of the candle highlights the blue of his eyes, and gosh, isn’t that the most charming sight Claude ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the scars on Dimitri’s forearms that he had been attempting to hide earlier. Those are cuts. Short and repetitive slashes stacked upon the inside of his wrist, and there are many of them, too many. They must be self-inflicted. Claude fights against the urge to voice his concerns.

“Do you trust me?” Dimitri asks him softly, drawing Claude’s attention once more. Does he trust Dimitri? A man with the strength of a thousand soldiers, powerful enough to kill Claude with one hand alone in less than a minute, propped up on top of him and caging Claude to the bed with his body.

He does trust Dimitri, with _his life_.

“Yes,” he breathes, “yes, I do.”

Without further ado, Dimitri slides back down his body and stoops low to brush his lips against the cut on Claude’s abdomen, blonde bangs tickling his stomach. Claude nearly jumps out of his skin, muscles twitching in surprise, and accidentally rams his knee into Dimitri’s stomach. Dimitri pulls away abruptly, worry creasing his face.

“Sorry, sorry-“

“No, no,” Claude interrupts Dimitri’s apologetic and panicked stuttering, “I’m okay. You just- you just surprised me. You can keep going.”

Dimitri is hesitant when he bends down once again, and Claude runs a hand through his blonde hair to encourage him. He forces his body to relax under Dimitri’s gentle ministrations, taking in deep, shuddering breaths, and watches Dimitri carve a path up his chest with chaste kisses.

“You’re beautiful,” Dimitri whispers against his skin as he kisses the scar above Claude’s heart, glancing at Claude from under his lashes.

Claude nearly faints then and there, face on fire. The scene taking place before him feels next to impossible; the crown prince of Faerghus kneeling above him, worshiping his body and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He lets his head fall back against the pillow and throws an arm over his eyes.

“And perfect. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

When Dimitri travels up further to his throat, Claude turns his head to the side and cranes his neck back. It presents Dimitri with more access to his collarbone, and Dimitri readily accepts the gift at once. He stays at Claude’s throat for a good while, planting kisses on his scars and eventually growing bold enough to nibble on his healthy skin.

“I won’t allow anyone to hurt you, never again,” Dimitri all but growls into his throat, resulting in a fierce shudder that runs down Claude’s spine like a strike of lighting. “Claude.” Dimitri’s hot breath ghosts over his shoulder blades, and Claude understands his intentions straight away.

“You can.”

A low whine rises from the back of his throat when Dimitri sucks at the skin located at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, an action which will, without a doubt, lead to a dark mark emerging on his skin. The thought of Dimitri marking him as a sign of love, pride and possession is just about too much for him.

“Stop,” he says firmly and shoves at Dimitri’s shoulder. Dimitri immediately relents, hoisting his body up and above Claude, and withdrawing his hands from Claude’s figure.

“I apologise. Did I go too far?”

“No, it’s just- I just need a minute.”

Dimitri’s presence disappears from above him. Claude peeks with one eye from under his arm and spots Dimitri sitting further back on the bed, giving Claude space and beaming at him like a complacent puppy. Claude chuckles a little and smiles back, almost a little shy after Dimitri’s intense display of protectiveness.

“It’s getting late,” Dimitri finally says after an eternity and Claude’s heart has long since returned to a healthy rhythm, voice smooth and regal once more. The candle has burned out by this point and Claude can feel the fatigue slowly sinking into his bones.

The loneliness of his own room doesn’t sound welcoming in the least. Call him paranoid, but Claude still doesn’t believe the fire near his dorm wasn’t an accident. He doesn’t want to go back. He wants to stay here, where he’s safe. Safe with Dimitri.

Claude touches the love bite on his throat with his fingers. He wants to stay with Dimitri.

“Can I sleep here?”

The request stuns Dimitri, causing him to pause his attempts at shedding his boots. He locks eyes with Claude, blinking a few times until he regains his composure, and a fond expression appears on his face, accompanied by the sound of his bright laughter that makes Claude’s heart stutter.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” he chuckles as he picks up the task of undoing the clasps on his boots. “Of course, you can.”

Claude sits up and skids to the edge of the bed alongside Dimitri, removing his leather boots with ease. He leans down to retrieve his shirt from the floor while Dimitri slides back onto the bed behind him, and puts it back on. When he turns around, Dimitri doesn’t seem to have any intentions of doing the same.

“You sleep shirtless?” Dimitri frowns as supports the upper weight of his body with both forearms on the linen sheets of his bed, averting his eyes.

“Does it bother you?”

“No, just curious.”

Claude slinks onto Dimitri’s figure, taking a seat on the junction where Dimitri’s legs meet his pelvis and watching him through hooded eyes. When Dimitri reaches out and cups his cheek in one hand, Claude leans into the touch. The cuts on Dimitri’s wrist catch his eye. He brings his hand closer gently and plants feather-light kisses on his wrist, one for each scar he counts.

“It’s too hot for me,” Dimitri says sheepishly, turning his head away, and Claude laughs. Of course, someone born in an icy tundra wouldn’t be rattled by the low temperatures of winter around Garreg Mach.

“I should have seen that coming.”

He cradles Dimitri’s face within his hands and bends down to press his mouth against Dimitri’s. A low whine escapes him when Dimitri responds by dragging him down further with a hand on his nape, tongue sliding over Claude’s bottom lip and asking for entrance. Claude grants it, kissing him back open-mouthed with unknown ferocity, feverish and slick.

After a while they pull apart, panting and gasping for breath. Claude lowers his body to lay on Dimitri’s broad frame and rests his head on his partner’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart. The sound is oddly soothing; like a lullaby, slow and beautiful, rocking him to sleep.

Claude can already feel himself slipping.

“Good night, Mitya,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. The fabric of Dimitri’s silk blanket brushes along his back and settles along the rim of his shoulders. Their legs are intertwined with one another, Dimitri’s arms wrapped around his body, rubbing small circles into his back.

What did he do to deserve this?

Dimitri could have any maiden he wished for as the prince of Faerghus. He could pick one of his many admirers from around the monastery, who send him notes and letters confessing their love. But, instead, he chooses to lay with an outsider such as Claude, taking him into his room, into his arms.

“Good night, my beloved.”

Perhaps, he is deserving of it, of Dimitri’s admiration, of his love. In the least, Dimitri seems to think so and for now, that is enough for Claude.

**Author's Note:**

> The reason Felix didn't hear Claude sneak by his room is due to him being in Sylvain's dorm and having his own party. Boom.


End file.
